


twisting to the sun

by middlecyclone



Series: organa coffee [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Fluff, Kittens, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlecyclone/pseuds/middlecyclone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What is this?” Finn asks, staring at the cup suspiciously. “This isn't the cappuccino I ordered. It smells like oranges. Why does it smell like oranges, Poe?”</p><p>“It's a vanilla earl grey latte,” Poe says, “because I'm pretty sure you do not need any more espresso today, buddy. You're kind of … twitching.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	twisting to the sun

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Re: Stacks by Bon Iver, Oscar Isaac's [cover of which](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aua4RZBLAhM) I highly recommend.

“Finn,” someone says loudly behind him, and Finn startles.

“Hi,” he says, and turns around in his chair to see the barista who’d served him half an hour earlier standing there, Organa Coffee apron abandoned and his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans.

“Your cup says Finn,” the barista says.

“I know,” Finn says.

“Is your name Finn?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Finn says. “I’m gonna be really honest, I’ve seen smoother ways to ask a guy’s name. I’m not really impressed.”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” the barista says, raising an eyebrow, “I’m just wondering why, if your name is Finn, you’re signing that email ‘Fabian Newcastle’.”

“Stop looking at my emails,” Finn says, annoyed, and slams his laptop shut. “That’s weird and an invasion of privacy.”

The barista shrugs and slides down into the chair next to Finn’s. “I’m just saying,” he says, “Finn is a great name. I wrote it on that cup myself, I should know. You should use it.”

“I do use it,” Finn says. “And not that I need to explain myself to you, but it is my name, and I use it for just about everything except this, actually. And I’m an author, and I’m trying to get published, and so Fabian’s my pen name. And that’s all I have to say about that, uh–”

“Poe,” the other man says. “It’s appropriately literary, I believe, which makes me somewhat of an expert in these matters.”

Finn smiles a little, totally against his will, and then forces his face back into a neutral expression, and tries to glare, even though Poe has perfectly tousled hair and a nice smile. That shouldn’t matter, though, because Finn is _not_ a sucker for a nice smile.  “Well, that’s great and all,” he says, “but I think I’m getting along just fine without your commentary.”

“So what’s your book?” Poe asks, ignoring the glare. Finn’s not sure if this means his glaring skills aren’t up to scratch, or if Poe is just immune to all forms of criticism. “Is it a historical investigation into Napoleonic fashions? A retelling of _Little House on the Prairie_ in 15th century Japan? A thorough history of the domestication of corn?”

“No,” Finn snaps, “it’s a young-adult fantasy romance novel, actually.”

“All I’m saying,” Poe says, faux demure, “is that if I see the name Fabian Newcastle on a book cover, there had better be at least five corn facts. You pick up a Fabian Newcastle, you’re prepared to learn.”

“Fine,” Finn sighs, “so you don’t think Fabian Newcastle can be the next J.K. Rowling. Help me pick a better pen name, then.”

“Like I said,” Poe says, “just use Finn. It suits you.”

“What about a surname? I’m assuming Newcastle won’t pass muster?”

“No, no,” Poe says, “you’ll need something appropriately dashing and traditionally heroic. For example, my last name is Dameron, which is an all-around great name for a Byronic figure.”

“That is a good name,” Finn says, and smirks. “I’m taking it. Finn Dameron has a good ring to it.”

“Wait, wait,” Poe says, looking off-kilter, “you can’t just take my last name, it doesn’t work like that–”

Finn shrugs. “You didn’t like my old name, you can deal with the new one,” he says, and reopens his laptop and changes the signature of his email to a prospective literary agent.

“Well,” Poe says, “I look forward to the corn book. You should give me a free copy, since I’m the one who more or less created your literary career from scratch. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“You’re a jerk,” Finn says, but he’s smiling as he presses send on the query email.

“That I am,” Poe says cheerily, “but a jerk who’s going to get you published.”

He stands up and waves a cheery goodbye to Finn. “See you around, Mr. Dameron!” he says, and Finn laughs.

“See you, Poe,” he says, and spends the next three hours smiling to himself like an idiot.

 

* * *

 

“You’re up awfully early,” Poe says, and Finn blinks.

“What?”

“You’ve been here almost every day for the past week, and always come in right at the end of my shift,” Poe says. “You get a medium cappuccino and then you sit with your laptop and type away frantically until I leave, and according to Jess, for a few hours after that. But not today. Today you’re here barely 20 minutes after opening, bright eyed and bushy tailed, wearing a rather fetching and well-pressed shirt, with a collar no less. What’s the occasion?”

“I’m substitute teaching today,” Finn says. “Math at the middle school.”

Poe winces. “You look far too chipper for someone who’s about to spend the next eight hours trying to teach pre-algebra to thirteen year olds.”

Finn shrugs. “I like teaching,” he says. “Kids can be nightmares but they can also be really great.”

“Still,” Poe says, peering skeptically overtop the espresso machine, “there has to be something else.”

Finn can’t restrain himself, and he breaks into a beaming grin. “Well, okay, there’s one thing,” he admits. “Fabian Newcastle sent about fifty agent queries and was either immediately rejected or summarily ignored. But Finn Dameron? Finn Dameron sent out one query last week and already has a request for a full manuscript.”

Poe blinks. “I… don’t really know what that means,” he admits, “but I’m very happy for you!”

“It means that the agent read the sample chapter I sent her and wants to see more,” Finn says excitedly. “I’m not saying it means she wants to represent me, not yet, but it means she thinks that something in my writing merits a closer look.”

“Oh my God,” Poe says loudly, “that’s a huge deal! Finn!”

Finn bites his lip, embarrassed. “Thanks,” he says, “that’s really–I mean–”

“Here,” Poe says, and hands him the paper coffee cup. “Don’t tell my boss Leia,” he says confidentially, “but there’s an extra shot in here, on the house. I figured you’d need the extra caffeine for the middle schoolers, but think of it as a celebration for being an incredible writer, too. A two-for-one deal.”

“Thanks!” Finn says again, and his fingers brush Poe’s as he takes the cup.

“Now,” Poe says, “don’t you have to be going?”

“What?” Finn says, and then checks the time on his phone. “Oh God, oops, bye!”

“Have a nice day at work, sweetie,” Poe calls as Finn rushes out the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“That’s terrible advice!” Finn calls back, and then he’s gone, rushing to make the bus to the school, but the memory of Poe’s encouragement and the heat of the coffee warm him all the way to work.

 

* * *

 

“What is this?” Finn asks, staring at the cup suspiciously. “This isn't the cappuccino I ordered. It smells like oranges. Why does it smell like oranges, Poe?”

“It's a vanilla earl grey latte,” Poe says, “because I'm pretty sure you do not need any more espresso today, buddy. You're kind of … twitching.”

“I am _not_ twitching,” Finn hisses, but as Poe raises a skeptical eyebrow, he realizes that the mysterious tapping noise that’s been following him around for the past ten minutes is his own foot, tapping relentlessly against the tile floor of Organa Coffee.

“Okay, fine,” Finn says with a death glare to the barista, “I will drink this terrible concoction, but I am _not_ going to like it.”

Poe just smirks. “We’ll see,” he says mildly, and Finn huffs in annoyance as he takes the latte and stomps back to his favorite window seat.

Having an agent request a full manuscript had been a huge step forward for him, but he’d gotten a rejection email back this morning, and it had stung more than he’d been expecting. After months of failure, one more disappointment should be just another brick in the wall, and yet he's still feeling really down. The agent had said that the “conclusion was overwhelmingly unsatisfying,” and that “while the premise was unique and well-crafted, the lack of emotional denouement was too severe a shortcoming to overlook.” All the praise in the world about his writing style couldn't make up for that level of criticism.

He types a sentence, deletes it, huffs an annoyed sigh, and takes a sip of the disappointing latte.

It’s probably the best latte he’s ever had in his entire life, full stop. It's sweet but not overwhelmingly so, with a hint of citrus and the foam on top velvety and rich. He can’t completely stop himself from making a truly embarrassing noise of appreciation.

“Terrible, right?” Poe says from behind him. “Clearly you can’t stand it.”

“Oh shut up,” Finn says, “there’s no need to be smug.”

“On the contrary, my friend,” Poe says, “there is always a need to be smug. Now, what has you so wound up today? You seem a little … tense.”

Finn sighs. “I need to fix the ending of my novel,” he explains. “There’s something not quite right about it right now, but I have honestly no idea what’s wrong.”

“So explain it to me,” Poe says, and checks around for customers and Leia before pulling up a chair and sitting down across from Finn. “How’s it end right now?”

Finn grins at him, reflexive. “Well, basically the whole story is about this girl who’s fighting against the evil kingdom who killed her parents, and the story ends with a … a choice, I guess,” he says. “She can choose whether to run away with this other girl that she’s in love with, or she can choose to stand up against the king and defeat the evil for once and for all. And because she’s a hero, of course she chooses to save her country and defeat the king, but–”

Poe groans, cutting him off mid-sentence, and Finn feels slightly hurt until he starts talking. “Finn, buddy, I’m sure it’s a great story,” he says, “but that’s just too cruel. Why’s she have to choose? Why can’t she do the right thing and be happy?”

Finn blinks. “Well, I mean … it would be so cliché,” he points out. “Like how terrible would it be to end a book with ‘and then they all lived happily ever after’?”

Poe shrugs. “I like happily ever afters,” he says simply. “A lot of people like happily ever afters.”

“I just feel like it would seem … cheap, almost,” Finn confesses, “for my protagonist to get everything she wants, y’know? Like the point is that her choice has value because it’s such a hard decision; if she didn’t have to choose then where would the value and sacrifice come in?”

“I don’t know, Finn,” Poe says, “doesn’t she deserve to be happy?”

Finn’s taken aback by this, confused and a little startled. “As much as anyone, I suppose,” he manages, “but–well, that doesn’t mean much, does it?”

“Let her be happy,” Poe advises. “If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work, but there’s no point sabotaging her on purpose when there’s no real reason she can’t have everything she wants.” He smiles at Finn then, warm and private, and heads back to the counter, and Finn commits the look and feel of that smile to memory, tucking it away in the deepest corner of his mind for cold morning and dark nights, and then pulls out his laptop and starts writing.

It’s not till hours later that he wonders if Poe had really been talking about his book the whole time.

 

* * *

 

“–absolutely not, Poe,” Leia was saying loudly, as Finn walked into the warm coffee shop out of the pouring rain, “we cannot have that _thing_ in here! It's an enormous health code violation!”

“But–” Poe is trying to protest, and Leia just shakes her head at him.

“I said no, Dameron,” she repeats, “I don't want to get shut down by the city. Get it out of here.”

“What's up?” Finn asks, crossing over to where Poe is standing dejectedly over by the counter.

“I found a kitten,” Poe tells him, and Finn looks down at the tiny bundle of orange and white fur in Poe’s arms and gasps.

“It's so little,” he says wonderingly, and reaches out a tentative hand to pet the kitten gently between the ears. “It's all wet,” Finn says sadly, and looks up to meet Poe's eyes.

“She was out in the gutter behind the shop,” Poe explains, “and well–you can see how bad it's raining. I wanted to get her inside where it's warm, but we can't have a kitten in the shop, so I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

“I'll take her,” Finn says immediately, and Poe looks startled.

“Oh!” he says, “I didn't mean–I wasn't trying to guilt you into anything, you don't have to–”

“Well, I’m not taking her forever,” Finn corrects. “But if you make me a drink to go, I'll take her back to my apartment with me and you can pick her up at the end of your shift.”

“You seriously don't have to–”

“I seriously do,” Finn corrects. “She's so tiny! And cold! And look at those huge eyes! Look, just give me your number and I’ll text you my address when you get off work.”

“Thank you,” Poe says, and grabs a Sharpie off the counter to scrawl his number across the back of Finn’s hand, “seriously, there aren’t enough words–”

“It’s not a big deal,” Finn says, feeling his face heat from both the physical contact and the effusiveness of Poe’s gratitude. “Look, just hand her over to me and make me a double cappuccino, and we’ll call it even.”

Poe gently transfers the kitten to Finn’s arms, and he pulls off his scarf and gently bundles her up in it, tucking her close to his body. When he looks up, Poe has a strange soft expression in his eyes, and he’s opening his mouth as if to say something when Leia coughs pointedly from the kitchen, and he ducks back behind the counter and starts making Finn’s drink. When he hands over the paper cup, he also hands Finn a paper bag with a muffin out of the display case. “It’s on me today,” he says, with a warm smile, and Finn smiles back.

The cappuccino is as good as always, and Finn can't stop a small satisfied sigh from escaping as he takes his first sip. In his arms, the kitten shifts slightly and meows plaintively at the movement. Behind the counter, Poe bites his lip and looks as if he’s about to thank Finn again, but before he can open his mouth Leia shouts threateningly, “that furball had better not still be in my shop!” and Finn has to make a hasty retreat, trying to shield the cat from the rain without spilling his drink.

Luckily, his apartment is only a few blocks away, and he's unlocking his front door in only a few minutes.

The instant he kneels down to untie his shoes, the kitten is leaping out of his arms to race across the floor and hide under his kitchen table.

“Hey, girl,” Finn says softly, “it’s okay, you can hide if you want, but I’m not going to hurt you.”

She meows, a tiny squeak of a noise, and Finn feels his insides melt a little as he pads on sock feet into the kitchen and starts searching his refrigerator for some kind of food for her.

“Do cats like turkey?” he asks the kitten. “Cats like tuna, and tuna is the chicken of the sea, and turkey is basically chicken, so I’m going to go with yes.”

She just stares balefully at him from under the table, fur still damp.

Finn sighs at her and then puts a few slices of turkey lunch meat on a small plate, and then sets the plate on the ground near the table. The cat sidles out from under the table and starts scarfing it down.

Finn grins, and lets her eat while he makes himself a sandwich of his own, and settles down with his paper coffee cup at the table next to her.

When he finishes his sandwich, he moves to the couch and starts eating bites of the muffin. It’s delicious, just like everything else from Organa Coffee. Even though he has the day off, Finn still feels odd being so unproductive, so he pulls out his phone and starts checking his emails. It’s only a few minutes before the kitten makes her way over to him and leaps up onto the couch to settle in his lap.

“Hey, kitty,” Finn says fondly, and pets her on the head. She purrs. “You need a better name than just ‘kitty’,” Finn tells her, and then thinks. “Blueberry, maybe, because it’s a blueberry muffin? Blueberry Banana. Blueberry Banana Bellhop the Eighth.”

She meows happily and then curls up into a tiny ball and immediately falls asleep. “Well, that settles it, then,” Finn says softly, “you’re a small orange blueberry. Ideal.”

Finn means to respond to his emails, he really does, and he manages to dash off a few quick replies, but before he realizes it, he’s asleep on the couch with a cat on top of him; he doesn’t even realize that he’s drifted off until he’s jolted awake by the repeated buzzing of his phone on the cushion next to him.

“H’lo?” he mumbles sleepily into the phone.

“It’s Poe,” the voice on the other end of the line says, “um, my shift just ended and I was wondering if I could come pick the cat up?”

“Oh, hey Poe,” Finn says, and then reels off his address into the phone. “Just drop by whenever, me and Blueberry are just hanging.”

“You did _not_ name the cat Blueberry,” Poe says, aghast.

“See you soon!” Finn just chirps into the phone, and hangs up.

It’s less than ten minutes later when there’s a loud knocking on the door. Finn suddenly realizes his quandary: the door’s locked, and he needs to stand up to let Poe in, but he has a precious bundle of napping kitten on his lap that he really doesn’t want to wake up.

With a deep sigh, he gently lifts Blueberry into his arms and makes his way over to the door. Blueberry stirs at the movement, yawns tinily, and then goes back to sleep.

“Hi,” Finn says, opening the door.

“Hi,” Poe says, and reaches down to pet the kitten. He looks up into Finn’s eyes, and his face goes serious for half a moment. “You did _not_ name my cat Blueberry.”

“Come in, Poe,” Finn says, instead of an answer, and steps backward into his apartment. Poe follows, not taking his hands off Blueberry or his eyes of Finn’s.

“Tell me you didn’t,” Poe says, “Please, buddy. Please.”

“Her name is Blueberry Banana Bellhop the Eighth,” Finn says proudly, and Poe groans.

“Why would you do this to me,” he says. “That’s a horrible name.”

Finn shrugs. “I think it’s cute.”

“It is cute,” Poe says, “which is why it’s so horrible. It’s adorable. It’s perfect. It’s sickeningly sweet. There’s no way I can change it, and there’s no way I can call her that.”

“It’s not that bad,” Finn says, and Poe ignores him.

“Maybe a nickname,” he muses, “something shorter. Blue? Bea? BB-8. I’m gonna call her BB-8.”

Finn laughs. “That’s even worse, man.”

“You’re not wrong,” Poe says, and lifts BB-8 out of Finn’s arms and into his own. “Hey,” Poe says, and reaches out to gently grip Finn’s forearm, staring directly into his eyes, “thank you. Really.”

“I was happy to do it,” Finn says sincerely.

Poe grins at him then, and Finn can feel the heat of the other man’s hand burning through the fabric of his own sweatshirt. Poe takes a quarter-step closer, then, and there’s a long moment. It’s as if time stops for a few seconds, waiting for someone to break the silence, to do something.

“Thanks,” Poe says finally, and smiles crookedly as he turns to go, something guarded and cautious in his tone. Finn closes the door behind him, and wonders at the look in Poe’s eyes and at the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t come to any conclusions.

 

* * *

 

Finn finishes reading over the revised conclusion of his novel for the fifth time, and then crosses his fingers before pressing send on his query email.

He’s sent a lot of emails to a lot of agents ever since he finished _Falcon_ a few months ago, but this is probably the most nerve wracking letter he’s sent yet. It’s to Luke Skywalker, who’s considered somewhat of an institution when it comes to representing fantasy, especially young adult fantasy. He doesn’t take on all that many clients, but he’s been responsible more than a few of the biggest genre novels of the past few decades, even if that's been tempered by a few vampire romance related disasters.

Finn really just wants to get published, one way or another, but if he was being totally honest he would be even happier than usual if Luke Skywalker was the agent who got him there. He’s been on his radar ever since he finished his first story a few years ago and started googling how he could be an author just like Ben Solo (this was before the backlash re: the embarrassing goth vampires). Sending query letters has been nothing but an exercise in learning how not to get his hopes up, and then dealing with the consequences when he inevitably does and they’re inevitably crushed. But even though Finn should really know better by now, he wants this, wants this _so much_ , which is why he’s held off on submitting before now.

He wasn’t ready, before. He’s ready now.

His laptop makes a _whoosh_ as his email finally connects to the slow café internet and manages to send the email, and Finn lets out a deep, slow breath and closes the lid of his computer. Right at that moment, the eclectic mix of jazz and ‘90s britpop that’s been playing over the speakers all morning cuts out, and is replaced by soft folk music.

And it’s not coming from the speakers, either. Finn casts his eyes around the shop until he finds the source of the music: the figure seated in the far corner of the shop, a mop of tousled dark hair bent over an acoustic guitar. After watching for a few seconds, Finn realizes with a jolt that the musician isn’t just anyone, it’s _Poe_ , and that’s–well. That’s new.

Finn stares over at Poe in astonishment and, feeling Finn’s eyes on him, Poe looks up and flashes him a bright smile before looking back down at his guitar. Finn feels like he’s being punched in the stomach, what with the way Poe’s hands fly over the strings of his acoustic guitar, the way his singing voice is so much softer than his regular speaking voice, the way his dark hair curls over his forehead. He has the sleeves of his worn gray cardigan pushed up to his elbows, and he’s singing a cover of some sad acoustic indie song Finn’s heard on the radio once or twice. He's never really much cared for it before, but when Poe is the one playing it--well. Finn might have a new favorite song.

 _Oh no,_ Finn thinks to himself, _Oh **no**_ **,** and then the song is ending and Poe is walking over to him and he’s desperately trying to put an expression on his face that’s somehow not incredibly lovestruck.

“What do you think?” Poe asks, almost shyly, and it's all Finn can do not to kiss him right then and, seriously? Where did _that_ come from?

“It was so great,” Finn gushes, “you are so great, oh my God. I had no idea you could sing like that, Poe, what the hell?”

Poe bites his lip, clearly pleased. “Thanks,” he says, “I really hoped you would like it.”

“How could I not?” Finn asks. “That was incredible. Sorry I don’t have–flowers, or whatever, this isn’t a ballet recital but I still feel bad that I had no idea.”

Poe shrugs, smiling. “It’s enough that you liked it,” he says, “and besides, I think of my musical career as a kind of secret identity. Kind of like the world’s most useless superhero.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Finn says immediately, “you should be the most famous person in the world, basically. Fuck Ed Sheeran, let’s get rid of that douchebag and replace him with you.”

Poe laughs, but then he grabs Finn’s upper arm, growing more serious. “Thanks, buddy,” he says, “that means a lot, but–even if I could be famous, I’m not sure I want to be. Music is really personal to me, like your writing is to you, and–it’s a big step for me whenever I even play here, where there’s half a chance I’ll see someone I know. Usually I just do shitty open mics across town where I know nobody will ever recognize me.”

Finn thinks about it for a second, then nods. “I get that,” he says, “I do. It’s brave of you to perform at all, really, I could never do that.”

“But you do,” Poe protests, “every time you submit your novel to another agent, it’s like me playing Carnegie Hall. You’re amazing. And you _need_ to let me read the book, by the way.”

“If me submitting to agents is playing Carnegie Hall, then you reading my book would be like if you gave me a 3-hour one-on-one personal show in my living room,” Finn says frankly.

Poe winces. “Right, got it,” he says, “okay, maybe not yet. Here’s a deal, I guess–when you let me read your book, I’ll give you the time and place of one of my underground shows.”

Finn feels something warm and pleased uncurl in his stomach at that, and he smiles helplessly at Poe, and he can’t stop himself from reaching a hand out to grab the other man’s shoulder, locking them into a strange pose, like a step from a strangely-paused ballroom dance. “I’d really like that,” Finn says honestly, and of course that’s when Leia steps up behind them and coughs pointedly at Poe.

“Less flirting, more playing,” she says pointedly, and they both leap back, mortified.

“I’ll, uh, see you–” Poe says, heading back to the corner.

“Later!” Finn agrees, and turns away to order another coffee from Jessika, who’s manning the counter while Poe plays to the mostly-empty shop.

“The usual?” she asks with a knowing smirk.

“Yes, please,” Finn says, with an air of embarrassed defeat. “Thanks, Jess.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey,”  Finn asks, “remember how you helped me fix my book?”

Poe, wiping down the counter, looks up. “Yeah, of course I remember that,” he says, “you were so over-caffeinated you sounded like you were trying to tap out the Declaration of Independence in Morse code.”

Finn ignores that entirely, and keeps talking. “It worked,” he tells Poe, grinning. “You were right. I sent a query to Luke Skywalker, of all people, and I just got a reply. He wants a full manuscript!”

“Is Luke Skywalker that agent you were telling me about?” Poe asks. “The one who’s responsible for those horrible _Nightfall_ books?”

“Those _aren’t_ his fault,” Finn says immediately, “but yes.”

“That’s so great, Finn,” Poe gushes.

“Anyway,” Finn says nervously, “That’s why I’m here—well, besides the coffee. I want to give you something.

“What you said before–about letting my main character be happy. I was thinking. It was really good advice, and I took it for my book, and I’m taking it for my actual life, too.” Finn takes a deep breath then, nervous, and then pulls a tall stack of paper, held together with a binder clip, out of his bag. “This is me trying to let myself be happier.”

Poe takes it, confused. “Not that I’m not interested, Finn, but what is this? What’s … _Falcon_?” he asks, reading off the top sheet of paper.

“It’s my book,” Finn says. “I want you to read it.”

Poe almost drops the papers, startled. “Really?”

“Well, I mean, you don’t have to,” Finn hedges, “it’s kind of long, and I don’t know if you’re really much of a reader or anything, or if fantasy is even your thing, so like. No obligation. I’m not trying to pressure you into reading my dumb terrible story, I just–you said you wanted to see it, before. So now you have the option.”

“Of course I’m going to read it,” Poe says, “I just didn’t expect you to let me see it so soon. It sounded … y’know. Kinda personal.”

Finn shrugs. “I guess I just figure–if I’m brave enough to submit the whole thing to Luke Skywalker and wait for him to reject me due to my personal failings, then I’m brave enough to show it to you.”

“Wow,” Poe says, at a loss for words, “I just–”

“It’s okay,” Finn says, “no rush, honestly. I don’t want to pressure you into something you’re not comfortable with. I guess I’m only handing this over because I’m too scared not to, at this point.”

Poe bites his lip. “But what does this have to do with you letting yourself be happy?”

Finn squirms, embarrassed. “I’ll tell you later,” he says, “I’m all out of bravery for today.”

Poe scoffs. “There’s no such thing as ‘out of bravery.’”

“Oh, shut up and make me a cappuccino.”

 

* * *

 

Finn’s phone chimes with the notification for a new email, and when he pulls it out to check, it’s from Mr. Skywalker. His stomach flips over with anticipation and his hands are shaking a little as he unlocks his phone. Finn’s expecting yet another rejection when he opens the email itself, but then it isn’t a rejection. It’s an offer. Finn is getting published.

 _Finn_ is getting _published_.

The only thing on his mind is that he _has_ to tell Poe, immediately. He’s only a few blocks away from Organa Coffee, so he starts heading in that direction, practically jogging down the sidewalk in his enthusiasm.

Finn just means to tell Poe about the email from Luke, he really does, but when he bursts into the shop and sees Poe behind the counter, with his stupid work apron and his stupid perfect hair, it’s like his brain just shuts off for half-a-second. When it turns back, on he’s leaning over the register and kissing Poe like there’s no tomorrow.

“Wow,” Poe says, when they come up for air, “that was–”

“Luke Skywalker liked my book,” Finn says, “he liked it and he’s going to sign me and I’m going to be an author, Poe, a _real_ author–”

“Wow,” Poe says again, still a little dazed but excitement clearly in his voice, and Finn realizes with a jolt what’s just happened.

“Oh, God,” Finn says, and tries to take a step back, “I’m so sorry, I just really–”

“Shut the hell up,” Poe says, breathing harshly, and yanks Finn in by his collar to kiss him again, fiercely and happily and, objectively, probably too deeply for a public place.

“You saved my kitten,” Poe says, annoyed, “you took care of my cat and you named her BB-8 and you’re a fantastic writer and you _moan_ when _drinking coffee_ , that’s not even fair—and the tie that one time, oh my God Finn—”

“Shut up,” Finn says, smiling so widely his face hurts, “Poe, you have perfect hair and you _play acoustic guitar—_ ”

“I’m going to kiss you again,” Poe says seriously, “just so we all know what page we’re on, here.”

“Not in my shop, you’re not,” Leia calls out from the kitchen.

“Jess, I’m taking fifteen,” Poe says immediately, and then grabs Finn’s hand, cautiously lacing their fingers together with a smile. “Come outside with me?”

Finn squeezes Poe’s hand in answer, and they find themselves sitting on the curb in the back alley, Finn shivering until Poe drapes his leather jacket over the younger man’s shoulders.

“So,” Poe says, “you’re going to be a huge fancy-pants author now, huh?”

Finn feels his face heat. “Well, I’m not published yet,” he says, “but–the odds are pretty good at this point.”

“I am so proud of you,” Poe says honestly, “you are–so smart, and so diligent, and you deserve this more than anyone else I’ve ever met.”

Finn leans in closer, bumping their shoulders together. “Did you read it? My book?” he asks nervously, staring at the dirty tips of his worn sneakers.

“Of course I read it,” Poe says immediately, “I finished the whole thing in a day, I couldn’t put it down.”

“Did you … did you like it?”

“Finn,” Poe says, “you massive idiot. I _loved_ it.”

Finn is honestly speechless at that, so there’s nothing to do but lean over and kiss Poe again, harder, until he’s more-or-less sitting in Poe’s lap and they’re both gasping for breath.

“Alright, time’s up, you absolute fuckers,” Jess calls out the back door. “I’m not going to look out here, in order to spare my delicate virgin eyes, but Poe, I will kill you to death with a milk frother if you’re not back at the counter in twenty seconds.”

“Coming, Pava,” Poe calls back, “hold your damn horses.”

Finn reluctantly untangles himself from Poe, who stands up and starts tying his apron back on, preparing to go back inside. He watches the way Poe bites his lip in concentration as he secures the waist tie behind himself, and feels a strange, overwhelming wave of affection crash over him at the sight.

“Hey,”  Finn says, "I just want to say–I really like you.”

“I really like you, too,” Poe says back softly, smiling.

“Yeah?” Finn says, grabbing Poe’s hands and pulling himself to his feet.

“Yeah,” Poe says. There’s an entire unwritten novel in this: in the sideways quirk of his mouth, the crinkle of his eyes, the firm set of his shoulders and the calluses across his fingertips. Finn’s not sure what to make of all of this, exactly, not yet, but he’s ready to put pen to paper and start to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for gendering BB-8. Droids don't have gender. Cats also don't have gender, but this story read very oddly using 'it' pronouns for a cat, so I did what I had to.
> 
> All depictions of the publishing industry are 60% made up, 40% half-remembered from a research paper I wrote in high school. Sorry about that.


End file.
